


What Leads Us To This

by tempered_rose



Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Judas - Freeform, M/M, Male Friendship, Multi, WAG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/pseuds/tempered_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven comes to terms with Michael’s signing, all while having flashes into the past of how they knew each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Leads Us To This

You don’t find out about the news, _his_ news for quite a while. You find that surprising later. After all, anything Michael related in the past few weeks has grabbed your attention and kept it for a long time. Everyone’s noticed, but few say anything. They have long since learned better than to interrupt your “musing” time—really, your Michael time—and they leave you to be as you are, alone in the little office in your house and just reading article after article, listening to news reports spewing the same facts and statistics over and over again. You never turn away from it though, because you simply have to know something, _any_ thing.

You’re waiting for what many other fans of the club you love are. News for the day Michael, the prodigal son, returns home after long, long last. You wait, just as they wait. Some might think that just because you’re a footballer you might get insider information faster than anyone, some might think that and sometimes they are right. But not this time. This time you are just like everyone else, normal as you’d always wanted, but you have to be patient and wait for an announcement.

 

After long, painful last, the news does come.

And when you read the breaking news headlines, everything—time, your breath, your life, your heartbeat—simply stops.

It all just stops.

And you go back.

\---

The day was rainy, as all other days were, but you didn’t care. You were at Melwood for the first time. Looking around in awe and imagining that you are in the presence of some of the greatest players that ever lived, ever will be, and you almost forget to breathe. You almost forget how to walk and you stumble. You blush and correct your steps immediately and pray that no one saw that.

However, there is one boy, a little bit older than you and a little bit bigger. He saw. And he smirked a little. You wonder what great confidence this lad has that you don’t and who the hell does he think he is, smirking at you, Steven Gerrard, like that.

You don’t get your chance to confront him yet, though, because your dad ushers you forward to meet the staff. You’ll begin in the academy first, like any talented Scouse boy dreams. For you, that’s enough to make you feel like you’ve just lead England to the World Cup finals and have won the title. It’s like Liverpool winning a treble for three straight years. Impossible is nothing; doubt and fears are nothing. Everything is perfect and nothing could possibly go wrong.

It isn’t until you begin properly in the Academy that you realize just how hard things are after all. Liverpool demands perfection from its young players, and they expect it of you. You are eager to prove yourself, perhaps a little bit too much so, and it shows in your aggression and determination to get the ball away from anyone who shouldn’t have it—anyone who isn’t you—and you forget sometimes that you’re being watched by the staff, by managers who have seen many a young lad get too up in the air only to crash and burn. You forget, but not for long.

No matter how often you try, you can’t get the ball off him. He is simply too fast and too talented at twisting, turning, shifting for you to get near him to get that ball. Only once or twice do you get a touch on it, but not before he has sent it elsewhere. For a striker, he makes a damn good midfielder and defender. You hate him instantly for that, but at the same time, can’t quite.

There’s something about the boy with big brown eyes and an easy smile that makes you want to tackle him to the ground, just to prove you can, and steal that ball away from him. He must know that, somehow he _must_ know that, and he still keeps it away from you, laughing in the breeze as you grunt in frustration.

\---

Everyone leaves you alone for a good few hours, at least, the ones that take the hint when you refuse to answer calls. Alex knows something is grievously wrong and decides to take the kids round to your mum’s after she makes you promise to show up for dinner. You simply blink and that is her agreement that you’ll come. She leaves, you hear her go with the girls, and you stay frozen in your chair.

Your breathing still isn’t quite normal; you aren’t sure if it ever will be again. Your heartbeat, on the other hand, has slowed back to the regular normal thumps that it has done for many years. Time seems to crawl along, and you don’t care. It’s amazing how much you simply don’t care about anything in those moments.

The television still plays, but the sounds are lost on you. You aren’t listening because you aren’t sure what has just happened. There is a haze, an impenetrable fog around your mind and you can’t seem to clear it away. It’s as if someone has locked you in a box and no one can hear you shouting to be set free.

You just sit and wait for the nightmare to be over.

You just sit and wait to wake up.

You wait, and wait, but you are still awake.

Awake and not dreaming.

\---

The boy with the brown eyes doesn’t leave you alone. He’s older than you, you learn, and he isn’t as shy as he sometimes pretends to be. Eventually, you manage to get a lead on his game and you can sometimes get away with removing the ball from his legs. He doesn’t like this, and his quips with you fade as he tries harder to keep the ball. It doesn’t take you much longer to get on even footing with him, but it’s still too long in your opinion.

You don’t want him to laugh at you, you’ve realized. Not because you don’t want to be laughed at, ever, but because there’s something about this boy. You aren’t sure what it is, only that something makes you want to prove you are equal to him. You can be just a good a footballer as he—and boy what a footballer he is.

He has a touch that you’ve only seen on television, but it needs refining. Now, he is a gem that has yet to be polished to the perfect shine. You know it will happen one day, and you can only hope you’re as valuable a stone as he is. You want to be the best footballer in the world. You want that prize because you know you can do it. You just need some luck, some faith, but you can do it. At Liverpool, you will be great. You can just _feel_ it.

Just like you can feel how things with that boy, Michael his name is, will be great. Some things you just know, and Michael will be great too.

Maybe if you get lucky, you could be great together.

 

There is another boy that is also very good, one of the best defenders the academy has. His name is Jamie and he’s from Liverpool like you. He’s older than you, the same age as Michael almost. They get along far better than you and either one of them do. You don’t know why, but you get a little jealous over this fact.

Maybe you and Michael won’t be the only lucky ones for this club.

\---

_There is an intruder in your house._

It’s the first rational thought that comes to mind when you hearing moving around coming from downstairs. You haven’t heard Alex come back, at least, you don’t think you have. Surely you haven’t been that far gone you wouldn’t have heard her?

You listen intently and relax a little when you realize those footsteps belong to Jamie. You aren’t particularly looking forward to the conversation he will undoubtedly want to have at some point this evening, but you know it’s only a matter of time before someone forces you into it. It might as well be Jamie. At least he knows the pain you are suffering, if not quite the same way.

He stops at the door and leans against the frame, just watching you. Good ol’ Carra, a watcher and a thinker before reacting. You needed that in your life for so long, you’ve come to rely on him. He’s your rock when the storm starts getting crazy. You’re grateful to him. The thought occurs to you in the vapor of listlessness that has consumed your mind for the past few hours that you should show him in some way that you’re grateful for all the times he’s been there for you. Perhaps you can clear an afternoon and go for a round of eighteen. _It’s not a bad idea_ , you think and then agree to do it next week.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says at last and you don’t argue. You don’t say anything at all.

All you do is rise from your chair, turn off the television, and follow after him after grabbing a jacket on the way out.

It’s raining after all. You wouldn’t want to catch cold.

\---

There’s an expanse of unused beach a few miles north of town that you visit sometimes when you want to think. You found it once when your family came to Crosby Beach and you wandered away from them. Not too far, not far enough for them to get concerned, but far enough to find the small secluded part after a curve in the landscape. You liked it there, and you had taken the t-shirt you’d been wearing and wrapped it around a stick you’d found and planted it in the sand. This was now your spot, Fort Gerrard, and you were the lord and master of your domain.

The first holiday you take after joining the academy, you’ve invited Michael and Jamie to come along, too. The three of you go to your place on that beach and play as boys do, without a care in the world. Your parents and brother are back with the others, and you’re glad of that. You’re afraid they might catch you watching Michael a little too much; you can’t help but admit that you are.

You’re glad he, and Jamie too, agreed to come with you and your family. You are making friends in the Academy, and you’re glad both of them are in that number. You’re not an overly friendly person, you’re not bubbly and outgoing, but you do like the banter that comes between the three of you. It doesn’t matter so much anymore that they are a little older, a little bigger than you. When you play, you match them for skill and that’s what’s important. They can hardly get a touch off you anymore, unless you intend for them to, and that’s what’s important. At least, football wise. You’re good friends now, and you’re glad for it. Life is a little less lonely when you have somebody to share it with.

Jamie is the first that has to go home; his mum and dad had already had summer plans and he was to go away with them on holiday. Michael stays, though. With Jamie gone, you don’t find that the awkwardness you half-expected there to be with Michael. He does notice you getting a little bit quieter, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply splashes you a bit more and grins brighter when you scowl before splashing him back. He won’t let you hide in your quietness, and you’re glad, even if you have to be soaking wet in the process.

On the last day before you have to leave, you both sit on one of the rocks on the shore. You’ve gone for a swim and are now letting what little sunlight there is dry you. The dry sand is caked to the bottom of your feet from where you dashed across the beach from the shoreline to the rocks; you can’t bring yourself to care.

Michael is sitting, laying, next to you and he’s looking at the clouds. You want to recline back and copy his motions but you can’t; you’re too shy for that. So you just lean back on your hands and look out at the ocean.

“What do you want to be, Stevie?” Michael asks absently and you look over at him—something you were trying not to do beforehand—and show him your confusion. He clarifies, “football wise.”

You look back to the ocean and consider his question. A slow grin crosses your face as you stand from the rock and look back to him. He has an eyebrow raised which you ignore.

“I don’t know what subpar thing you are going to be, Michael. But _I_ am going to be the best footballer in the world, and you will have to watch me on the telly because I will be too great for you.”

Your eyes shine in a challenge that Michael rises to accept.

“Is that so? Well in that case, you might want to get a little bigger,” he says and stands, his height making you look tiny again, “shorty.”

His grin and his height and the acceptance and warmth and hundreds of other emotions in his eyes get to you. You touch him for the first time on his bare chest and push. He doesn’t even move because he’s that much more bigger than you. He laughs and you feel tormented and enlightened at the same time.

Not for the first time, you curse being so small.

\---

Very little about that beach has changed, you notice absently. Crosby has spread further north, but it still hasn’t ruined your space of emptiness at this place. Jamie walks silently beside you as you both make your way through the soaked sand. The tide is starting to come in and it’s only a matter of time before where you both are walking now will be covered in water. You don’t have much time, but you can’t bring yourself to feel any sense of urgency. Actually, you can’t bring yourself to feel much of anything.

Jamie has been extremely merciful with his lack of conversation. You’re glad.

You don’t think you could bring yourself to mention _Him_ right now in any sort of capacity; you definitely know you don’t want to. You want to forget him, as much as possible, but you can’t.

You can’t.

\---

There is a painful sting in your pride, a step in your giddy-up that has been misplaced, and you now look at Michael with burning resentment. You didn’t think it possible to hate your best friend this much, and yet you do. After all, he’s been given the golden ticket. He’s going away. He’s leaving you. For Lilleshall. Bastard.

You aren’t one to swear much, even in your thoughts, but ever since Michael told you that he had been offered a place there, you have been doing so more and more. You tried your best for the longest time to get into the stupid blasted academy there and yet now you will have to sit on the sidelines and watch from a distance. Liverpool is wonderful and you love it here, but—come on, it was _Lilleshall_!

Michael gives you his apologies, but you don’t accept them. At least not verbally. You’re sulking and you know it, Michael knows it, but you don’t care. Your pride has been wounded and you are determined to make Lilleshall regret not picking you to fill up their ranks. The fact that they are stealing Michael away from you too only adds fuel to your fire.

They will pay, eventually. You’ll show them.

Michael says goodbye to you the day before he leaves; he has offered to come around on the day of, but you’ve lied and told him you’d be out. It didn’t matter what time he was leaving, you didn’t want to see him. You see the look of disappointment on his face but you ignore it. He’ll be away for two years and you might only see him on some occasions in that time. It’s a hell of a lot different than seeing him a good part of the week day in and day out.

He leaves and you go back to sulking. Not even your dad can cheer you up.

How are you supposed to be the best footballer in the world when you can’t even get into the best football academy in England?

\---

Jamie is talking to your wife on the phone. If this was any other day, you’d find that strange, especially when you could be talking to Alex yourself. You aren’t even really listening to what he has to say. He could be asking her to leave you and run off with him, and you wouldn’t have noticed. Not that Jamie would do such a thing, but it could have happened.

“The girls are staying at your mum’s tonight,” he tells you after he hangs up and hands your phone back. You only nod. “I told her that you weren’t feeling too well. It’s not like it’s a lie or anything…”

He looks at you and waits for you to speak. He shakes his head when you stay silent.

The both of you are sitting on a bench at the Crosby beach and there’s a pretzel trolley not far from you. You suddenly have a craving for fish and chips, one that makes no sense but you want to follow through on it anyway.

You stand suddenly, surprising Jamie, and start in the direction of one of the shops you had seen on the way over here. You don’t turn back to Jamie because you know he will follow you.

Jamie always follows.

\---

By the time Michael returns to Liverpool for certain two years later, you’ve gotten bigger. Finally you’re not such a small little lad that reluctantly takes hits from the bigger players. Your muscles have developed and, while you are still a teenager that grows only in spurts, you’ll take it. You’re on even ground with Michael again; you can look him straight in the eye now, and you’re glad for it because now you’re as red to the core of your body as you could ever be. He’s been away to Lilleshall, and you’ve stayed.

That’s something that makes a difference.

But no matter how great a difference it made, Michael was still older than you and more developed as a player. That’s why he earned his first-team stripes ahead of you—over a year and a half ahead of you.

You watched that match against Wimbledon, how could you not? And you saw his goal and the celebration afterward. You also, unfortunately, saw the streaker. Blocking the latter from your memory, you remember the look on Michael’s face when he had scored. He had seemed so happy, so thrilled. You were happy for your friend, truly, but you couldn’t help that nagging bit of jealousy.

You desperately wanted to know what scoring a professional first-team goal for Liverpool felt like. You wanted to know, and you wanted to know badly.

Tasting your first goal that would one day come, you slumped back into your seat and watched the match unfold.

\---

You aren’t ready to go home yet, the sound of protest you made when Jamie suggested it, kept you both out longer. You didn’t know what time it was and didn’t look at the clock in Jamie’s car to find out. You had turned your phone off long ago and hadn’t thought twice about it since.

You didn’t want to be contacted by anyone.

Jamie was special in that regard, you noticed and looked over to see him sipping a cup of something he considered coffee—it wasn’t, it was far too sweet to ever be considered a coffee—and you thought about why he got to have such exclusive rights to your presence on _this_ day.

He was as reliable and faithful as any good friend should be, but he was also in the same painful boat as you. He, too, had lost a friend today. The only difference, Carra would probably get him back after a nice, long chat about boundaries.

You didn’t want him back. You didn’t want to ever see him again.

But then, you’d thought that before, hadn’t you?

\---

As you grew up together clad in that special particular red, you noticed things change ever so subtly between the two of you in a way that didn’t change with Jamie.

You had guessed from around the time at the beach that you liked looking at Michael that there might have been something more to it than that, but you never really thought about it. Perhaps all boys went through a stage of admiring other boys for what they themselves didn’t possess. Back then, you admired his muscles, his height, the easy grin, and the sense of humor he had.

But now, now things were different. Michael was twenty, a young, great man in the making, and scoring wonder goals for everyone, Liverpool _and_ England. You were still stuck in your teenage years with acne and horrible growth spurts that still hadn’t quite sorted themselves out yet. At least your voice had stopped breaking; there was _that_ , you figured.

Now you did fancy Michael in…certain…ways, and you knew it.

The realization of discovering this had been a steady, slow process, starting that day at the beach. It had grown over the years, a little admiration and slight hero worship, turning into longing and missing him when he was gone those two damnable years. He’d grown up into a very cute and easy-going teenager, later a man, and you had enjoyed watching that on a constant basis. Admiration, though, had turned into what it was now. Lust.

You had already had your panic attack about your mortal soul and the sins you found yourself wanting to commit with Michael. You hadn’t told your parent’s yet; they were arguing between the two of them still and you didn’t want to give them something else to be upset over. You hadn’t even told Paul and he was the best one to have a secret shared with.

Settled into your private intimacies, you kept quiet about what you wanted to do and simply enjoyed being around Michael when the opportunities presented themselves. And that was frequently. Since he was your best friend, it was easy to be around him and it wasn’t weird. He made you laugh, smile, and still refused to let you be silent or quiet on your own. He didn’t mind your bouts of temper, and simply brushed off any swearing you directed at him—swearing had become a permanent fixture in your vocabulary, much to your Gran’s dismay.

During the day it was easier to hide how you felt because you had to. Nobody needed to know what you thought about at night when you couldn’t sleep or just _needed_ to. Nobody needed to know.

Least of all Michael.

\---

The taste of coffee is still bitter in your mouth, just as the slight grease on your fingers from your fish remains no matter how many times you wipe your hands on your trousers. The urge to wash your hands is one you ignore. You’re very good at ignoring things today.

Jamie caved once again and you both sat in the darkened theater, watching a film flicker across the giant silver screen. Well, Jamie’s watching it, and you’re just letting the images dance in front of your eyes, but don’t allow them entry into your subconscious.

You suppose you should start to process your feelings about the day’s events, and you should definitely share that with Jamie. But for right now, you’re in a cinema and talking isn’t allowed.

So you just sit and wait for the film to be over before you can ask to get enough liquor poured into you that you forget it all by talking to Jamie.

You just want to forget everything.

Again.

\---

Jamie is the one that guesses about your real feelings for your mutual friend. You aren’t really surprised. Jamie’s calm and collected most the time off the pitch; he has enough time to notice such things that pass between the two of his best friends. He is polite about it, though you can sense his awkwardness about the whole thing.

In the end, it’s at a coffee shop when he asks how long it’s being going on. You shrug and say that you’ve just liked him as more than friends for—well, even you still aren’t sure _exactly_ when that part started. Jamie nods slowly and promises his silence on the matter to Michael. You thank him by buying him that stupid too-sweet coffee drink thing he fancies and he grins. You both go about your merry way that afternoon and, true to his word, Jamie doesn’t mention it.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been grateful for a friend like Jamie, but this time had been the most important of all times before it.

\---

Jamie turns the heating on in the car due to the chill that the night air has picked up. You both shiver a little while it heats up. You look at the clock for the first time and see that it’s nearing nine at night. You should probably be getting home; Jamie probably needs to do family-man type things, the sort of thing he’s very good at besides his career.

An apology is on your lips but Jamie interrupts you.

“Where to next?”

The apology fades as fast as it came and you’re grateful, once more, that Jamie knows you so well. This time, you aren’t silent and reply with the name of a bar near your house.

Jamie simply nods and puts the car into gear.

\---

It’s an accident. It slips out before you can stop it. It’s of course too loud so he naturally hears you and you want to hide, run and hide in the furthest depths of Anfield so he won’t find you. Your cheeks fan red with a beautiful blush and you want to hide almost as much as you want to know his reaction. But you’re scared. You don’t think you would be able to handle it very well if he was to cruelly reject you.

But this is Michael you’re talking about. He would never be cruel to you.

“…w-what?” he asks cautiously, as if he is trying to figure out the best sort of reaction to perform.

You swallow hard and repeat what you accidentally blurted a few moments before in the conversation of who fancies who in the dressing room. You’re in his house, the one he had built from ground up, and talking about fancying people. It was an honest blunder, you repeat in your mind before you speak.

“I…I fancy you, a lot.”

You watch him wipe his palms over his jeans-covered-thighs and you swallow stiffly. You wait, and wait, and watch as the thoughts flicker inside his mind—you can tell from the way he avoids looking at you while emotions race across his face.

“Steven, I—” he starts but you interrupt.

“It’s okay, Michael,” you lie in an attempt to correct this stupid mistake. “I didn’t think you—”

“No! No, it’s just that…well, I don’t know how to—”

You shake your head and stand up. “Michael, it’s fine.”

You are lying through your teeth, but you need to go. Call it fleeing, call it escaping, you don’t care what it’s called. All you know is you need to be somewhere far away from Michael and the awkward tension now radiating between you both.

Michael shakes his head, though, and you wait for him to make sense of his own thoughts. Why you aren’t running for the door, you can’t quite say.

“I don’t know how to…” he blushes a little, something you don’t see very much, “with a man, but I wouldn’t mind learning…”

He looks up into your eyes at that and then the awkwardness dissipates completely and melts into something far more suggestive. The thought of leaving disappears from your mind and you forget completely about it as you move closer to the sofa, to Michael, and lower your head to kiss him for the very first time.

He tastes like cinnamon, coffee, and several other things you can’t name but are all too-interested in finding out.

So you do.

\---

You and Jamie sit in the back booth in the corner. Two pints apiece between the two of you have been drunk already, but that’s not enough to loosen your tongue enough to talk. Jamie doesn’t open the discussion, and you and he both listen to the pub chatter.

They are talking about _Him_ and what he’s done. They are not pleased by this news, apart from the one Everton fan in the mass of Red supporters. Even he is upset that a good local lad went Manc.

It’s the first time it’s been said by anyone all day in yours and Jamie’s presence since the story originally broke.

It is not a relief, but the breeching of a dam.

\---

Michael leaves you during the August transfer window. He tells you the day before he signs, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing you say can stop it from happening. It’s all but done at that point, only the official inked signature remains.

You can’t feel anything that day. No air, no life, no warmth nor cold. Nothing.

You sit and stare at the ocean at your spot above Crosby beach and pray that this is a nightmare that will end with a snap of the fingers, or a pinch on your arm. It doesn’t, but yet you still hope.

Michael finds you there; he always knew about this spot ever since you took him here.

He doesn’t speak at first, and no apology he can formulate in his mind would work; you both know that. So he stays silent and watches the ocean with you instead of turning his gaze to the sky as he usually would do.

“There aren’t any beaches in Madrid,” he says and there’s more than a hint of sorrow in his voice.

Your voice is distant, cold even. Cold like Michael’s heart.

“There aren’t a lot of things in Madrid.”

\---

“When he left the first time,” Jamie says only a little bit slurred, an achievement considering how much the two of you have consumed at this point, “I thought I’d never get you to talk again.”

His words don’t sting thanks to the alcohol, but you remember what he’s talking about.

“It took me a week of nagging you all day, but I did it.” He says proudly and you nod. “I got us Steven back.”

“And then we won in Istanbul.” You add and relieve the glory once again. You wonder if he watched that match. You wonder if it stabbed his heart the way he’d done yours. You wonder if he still felt that loss.

You doubted it.

\---

“I just… I just wanted to say, congratulations.”

His voice is distant, hollow, the way yours was so long ago when he said goodbye. You ignore that fact.

“Yeah, thanks, Michael. Listen, we’re getting ready to go ride around the city. I’ll call you back later, yeah?”

“Oh…sure, bye Steven, and—”

You hang up on his goodbye because you don’t want to hear that twinge in his voice. You will feel guilty about it later, you say, and then do as you had said. You begin to prepare for the city tour.

You also ignore the fact you miss hearing his voice.

\---

The bartender uses Jamie’s phone to find and call Pepe to take the both of you home. You’re too drunk to drive, and Jamie refuses to be poured into a cab and leave his car behind. You’re a little embarrassed to have your goalkeeper come and see you so shitfaced, but Pepe is your friend and you know it won’t be the last time he sees you so drunk.

You’re actually relieved to see him when he does arrive. You and Jamie stumble your way out the door and into the Spaniard’s car. He shakes his head at you both and mutters something in Spanish, something Xabi probably taught you back in the day but you don’t remember enough now to translate.

Pepe drives you both back to yours and helps you do the pub-crawl back inside. In his accented voice, he tells you to both get some sleep and that he’ll be in the guest bedroom in case they need him.

You manage to mumble ‘thanks’ before you pass out into the darkness of your stupor.

You’re glad you have friends like Pepe Reina.

\---

You dream of a different pair of brown eyes than what you used to. You don’t fancy Xabi the same way you did with Michael, you keep him as your friend and only that, but that doesn’t stop you from that infamous kiss. The moment overwhelmed you and you let it.

It was like the first time you had felt alive in—you don’t know how long.

Xabi was a good, good friend to you. He was as reliable as Jamie in times of turbulence and in the other times of beneficial splendor.

Unlike Jamie, though, he had left, taking part of you with him.

It was a part of his heart, yes, but not one that felt any depth of love for him. It was more or less the parting of a friend and the sadness that now they would be far apart instead of close-by. A pint of brew would have to wait until holidays, now.

You miss Xabi because he filled the hole that someone else with brown eyes had already dug so deeply.

\---

You wake up the next afternoon with a headache and a throbbing there. Once again, the thought of ‘Thank God for Pepe Reina’ comes to the forefront of your mind when you see a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin right by the bed on the table. You don’t remember much about last night, but then again you really don’t need to to realize what happened here.

You lay in bed and wait for the throbbing to ease enough so you can get up and try to function somewhat normally. After several minutes you’re convinced it might just be easier to stay in bed when you hear the door downstairs open and the loud squeal of one of the girls.

Groaning, you remember being a parent is more important than lying in bed and nursing a hangover. You get up and slowly make your way downstairs.

You almost feel bad for Jamie when you get there, and you would, if not for Lexie’s loud giggling. You rub your temple and grimace into a smile when you see them. Jamie has a look of murder on his face when he sees you, and you just smile slightly and watch your two daughters tug on Jamie’s shirt and ask him to judge which one of them is prettier in their new outfits.

In the corner, you hear Pepe talking with Alex. You’ll be in trouble later, rightly so. But right now there’s something oddly comfortable about having your family—disjointed as it may be right now—in your kitchen. Life is…comfortable right now.

Comfortable and manageable, but something still feels like it’s missing, like it hasn’t been resolved.

You know what that is and you sigh.

 

Despite knowing what is eating at your mind, you still wait three more days before you do anything about it. You tell yourself it’s because you need to get sobered up one-hundred percent before going. Then you tell yourself you need to take care of your girls and treat them to something nice. Then you have training. Then you have…a weekend with nothing to do.

You sit at the side of the pool in your home and watch Alex with the girls. It’s small splashing and they are having a good time and there’s a smile on your face. The smile fades when a news report from Sky breaks into yours and her consciousness.

Looking at the television, you see the God-awful red of Manchester United everywhere and the press conference. The headline reads simply ‘Michael Owen unveiled at Manchester United’. You see the badge on his chest, over his heart, and you swallow hard. It’s wrong in so many different ways that you couldn’t count them if somebody asked you to. It’s just...wrong.

Alex finds your eyes after a moment and she nods once. “Go. End it for good.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

\---

With Michael in Newcastle, at least he is home. You know where he is and you will see him occasionally at the League matches. It’s not a whole lot, but it’s something. It’s a lot better than Spain.

You take the small comforts when you can, and that’s why you go back to him. You both meet in a hotel for England duty and share a room, but that’s not all you share. Once again, you share bodies and kisses, touches, and groans. You missed him, and he missed you, and you show him that but telling him with your hands and your mouth. You let your words seep into his skin where his warmth can melt you back to life.

That call-up is too short for all the making up you have left to do, but for now it does enough. You still love each other; Michael looks into your eyes and tells you this silently. He still loves you, just the same as ever, and no matter how much distance comes between the two of you, he silently promises you that he will always love you.

With the slight smile on your face, and your hands pulling him closer for another kiss, you promise him your undying love as well.

After all, once a red, always a red.

\---

_Once a red, always a red. Once a red, always a red._

The chant from the Kop plays over and over in your mind as you sit there, in the most dangerous spot in all Manchester. You almost drive away a hundred times but in the end you force yourself to stay. Their training should be done with soon. He should be leaving soon.

You should be driving away from Carrington any moment now.

The chant changes then, subtly in your mind to something more malicious. You repeat the words to yourself as the doors open and players start to leave.

“Once a Manc, _never_ a red.”

Then you see him and you say it again, out loud and with more meaning.

He’s with Ryan and Wayne, laughing at something that one of them had said. You sit with your hands firmly gripping the steering wheel and watch as something begins to blaze down into an ember inside of your gut.

For three days you have convinced yourself somehow it wasn’t real, that it really was a dream. That you weren’t going to let the hate, the anger, the upset, the treason of it all get to you. But not anymore.

The fire smolders in your bloodstream as you watch Michael. Your temper begins to burn bright at last.

 _Once a Manc, never a red. Once a Manc, never a red._ The Kop seems to be inside of your mind, screaming the jeers louder and louder.

Michael would regret signing that contract, you promised yourself and promise Liverpool fans that aren’t there. The Judas would pay for everything he had ever done and would probably do. He would pay.

You started your car and feel the disgusted nausea in you churn.

You don’t love that person anymore, you say aloud as you drive away without looking back. After all, you don’t love Judas liars that promise things and then ruin everything, _again_.

You cling to your anger and upset and hurt and let it burn.

It doesn’t matter, you decide when you’ve almost reached home. He can sign for United and that will be just fine. He’ll sit on the bench, when he’s not injured, and only play as a substitute. What kind of life is that? You ask yourself and smirk to yourself in the rearview mirror.

You are Steven Gerrard, captain of Liverpool, and one of the greatest players that ever was. You start most games and have won many things at the club you love more than any other in this world. You have a great family, and an excellent group of friends.

Who cares what one stupid man did? Who cares what Michael Owen turned his back on?

Not you. Not anymore.

You grin and start humming the best song in the world as you pull into your driveway. As you get out of your car and lock it while walking up the front steps, you sing, albeit it badly and off key:

“And you’ll never walk alone. Except you Michael Owen, you will walk alone, Judas.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this originally in 2012 for a Footie_Bang on LJ. The original post can be found [here](http://footie-bang.livejournal.com/3505.html). I'm just reposting it here cause I think it's a good one. :-)


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